


Just Another Glorious Day

by ScribbleBeast



Category: Warhammer Fantasy
Genre: Krubespyre, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28022574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribbleBeast/pseuds/ScribbleBeast
Summary: When it came to internal strife, Markus had enough for all of their little band combined. So, when it came down to dealing with it or seeking refuge at the bottom of whatever bottle he could find, it was no surprise he opted for the easier route - in a manner of speaking.
Relationships: Markus Kruber/Victor Saltzpyre
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

When it came to internal strife, Markus had enough for all of their little band combined. Losing his family, his men. Not being a good enough soldier/leader/friend/son. Dousing his troubles in drink instead of facing them 'like a man'. The list went on. Topping off the ever-rolling self-pity and scorn, he'd endured a scolding this morning for apparently eating ALL the breakfast - hey, he was hungover and hungry. Cut a man some slack. AND Lohner had cut him off! Again! But that, ho, that at least he'd managed to sort himself. He wasn't the only one in the Keep with their ways and their secret stashes.

So, regardless, when Kerillian poked her head and her black, bottomless pits of eyes into his field of vision, with 'that' look - oh yeah, there was only one thing that one meant - he really wasn't in the mood to accommodate.

"Trying to impress, Kruber? With all that on display?" The elf chimed, crouching on the ledge above him. He was on his back, knees curled and hands behind his head, doing slow, steady sit-ups. The sun was punishing today and so was his routine, and he'd stripped to the waist, baring his tanned, hair coated torso for the world to see. Or, more accurately, just Olesya. He hadn't spotted the old biddy, but he knew she'd be there, leering at him from afar. Clearly scars did draw the ladies. Made him shudder to think.

He didn't stop, grunting with each 'up'. "Why? You impressed?"

Kerillian gave a cutting laugh that would have made him self-conscious, if it weren't already his permanent state of being. "Impressed by a mayfly? Oh and I thought you had no wit."

"Right. Well you're here, ain't ya?" Markus huffed with a slight scowl. Kerillian just ignored him, occupying herself with a bramble on her cloak.

Yeah, go on, elf. We know what you're really here for.

Eventually she turned her gaze back toward him. "...I don't understand why you're so content to remain under One-Eye's thumb."

There it was.

Markus clenched his jaw, paused mid sit-up and glared. He bloody wished people would stop bugging him this morning. And about that, in general.

Sure. Y'wanna know why, Kerillian? Yeah, well so do I. I wanna know why I still tail that insufferable old bugger like his dumb obedient mutt. I wanna know why I put up with him pushing me around and his self-righteous know-it-all holier-than-thou attitude. I wanna know why I haven't offed him yet like I done with a few deserving superiors in the past. I bloody well wanna know why I'm almost kinda fond of the disagreeable sod.

He cleared his throat, brows knitted together as he shrugged off the internal dialogue. "...I've served worse than him."

Kerillian sniggered. "Oh aye, I'm sure. But on your knees though?"

"Aw go bother someone else, elf. Can't you see I'm bloody in the middle of something??" He snapped.

She laughed again, melodic and piercing simultaneously. "Oh Kruber, you're much too easy. No wonder he keeps you."

He just glared, stopped and waiting. Kerillian met his eye as if in challenge. He couldn't see the rest of her face, but he knew she was smirking with vindictive glee. Spiteful bloody fey. He gave in first, scoffing away her prior remark and shifting himself to turn over onto toes and hands for a set of pushups. There was a whisper and rustle, and he knew she was gone.

* * *

Victor had been in a foul mood all morning.

It wasn't an unusual occurrence. In fact, he liked to believe that a brooding temperament lent to an affinity for fine-tuned skepticism and inquisitive determination. And when one had seen the things he had, lost an eye to them even, then one was deserving of a foul mood at the very least.

The instigator of his mood this particular morning, however, was a piece of information gleaned through...determined means. Perhaps not his to know by any account, but an overheard rumour had him seek it out anyway. And what a rumour. Markus Kruber - faithful, loyal Kruber - no Kruber at all, but de Mandelot! A Bretonnian! And of all possible heresies, thinking to turn his back on Sigmar and take up the mantle of a Knight of the Grail. Kruber, who had turned down his offers for initiation into the Order. Kruber, who spoke so honestly to his face but, he suspected, somewhere deep down, was just as scornful as the rest of them behind his back. It would prove to be what he deserved, for having faith in the soldier. He had no reason to feel so affronted by the matter. Kruber was a paid hand. Loyal, but disposable.

He would get to the bottom of it, he decided, and sought out the soldier. Undoubtedly he would be in the training ground, following his usual routine of morning exercise. He approved of the man's discipline in at least such endeavours, despite his reliance on drink. Coming up along the walkway overlooking the area, he spied the hunched form of Olesya, still and silent by the edge, and approached the witch to peer down his nose at the view she was inspecting. Sourness twisted his features, he eyed the shirtless Sergeant exercising out in the training yard.

"Oh ho ho, come to admire the view, have we?"

He scowled, gaze remaining fixed. "There is no view here worth admiring - and you would do best to keep your lecherous eye to productive occupations, crone."

Olesya snorted at him. "Oh hush your blathering, you old virgin. You make me look like a spring chicken."

A heat spread over Victor's cheeks at the accusation and his gaze was successfully diverted toward a new target. He spluttered, brows furrowing further and drawing striking lines through his features that turned the look fiercer. "What?! I am not...! Silence, hag! Attend to your purpose, before I question your usefulness."

"Question all you want, Victor." Olesya calmly replied. Neither she nor her gaze moved from their target or perch.

Victor grit his teeth against a scathing rebuke but thought better of it. It was wasted effort to bandy words with a witch. With a 'bah!' he stormed past her to continue on his way down to the grounds, where the unaware soldier continued his regimen under the crone's peering eye. Markus didn't falter at the sound of approaching steps or acknowledge the hunter's presence, and Victor paused some paces away from the man, behind him, watching the muscles in his back and arms ripple with each push up.

To the point, Victor. Idleness invites laxness. Laxness grants vulnerability.

He cleared his throat. "I hear you have had a...vision."

Markus paused and turned a look over his shoulder to the hunter. A twitch in his brow. The soldier was evidently irritated, either at the interruption or the hunter's presence, or both. "Yeah? What of it?"

Victor's tone went as sour as the look he wore. "I strongly recommend you consider your path carefully. The Order can still always use that strong right arm of yours."

The brow arched this time. Markus got to his feet with an exasperated grunt. "You really want me in that bad, eh?" He rolled his bare shoulders, cracked his neck with a groan of relief. The light danced off the sweat-moistened muscles and highlighted contours.

Victor tensed, swallowed and fixed his eye on Kruber's, back straightening and chin cocking to emphasise his superior stature. "A Bretonnian knighthood is not to your temperament, it would not provide sufficient challenge. A man of your calibre requires stimulation."

Markus just snorted in response and his moustache twitched in partially obscuring a smirk. He approached the witch hunter with a cockiness to his gait, a challenge in his eye. Victor found himself backing up, felt his back hit something, equipment jangle softly at the bump. He glanced, barely a second, saw the table, saw Kruber suddenly in front of him.

"And you reckon you can provide me that stimulation, do ya?" Markus asked with a low huskiness. He leaned in, leaned over Victor and placed both hands on the table to trap the hunter against it.

"I..." His mouth was suddenly dry. Victor swallowed as with eyes a little wide he stared back at Kruber's piercing stare. "...I don't follow."

The soldier chuckled and continued his lean, close enough now to almost brush lips, moustache tickling Victor's freshly shaven skin and the breath of his words broaching the gap between them. "Oh I think ya do, Sir." He drew back, his shirt in hand dragging off the table, and he turned away to put it on and saunter back into the keep.

Victor couldn't do more than watch him go before he managed to shake off the paralysis. The scowl returned at his moment of weakness. He took out his annoyance on a training dummy and speared it through the eye.

* * *

Markus strode quickly, determined not to glance back.

Good going, Markus, what the bloody hell was that? Flirting with the boss? Get your rowdy loins under control, mate. It ain't been THAT long.

He couldn't help it. Came just as natural as bashing and slashing on the battlefield, or sculling a bottle of brandy in a single mouthful. Busty barmaids, strapping stable lads, heck, you can bet he'd thrown a line or two Kerillian's way. And Sienna - the two of them had a good back and forth going.

But Saltzpyre??

He shook his head, marching across the keep common toward his quarters, ignoring Bardin's call of Azumgi from the map, Sienna's fireball that bounced dangerously close to his head on way to somewhere else. He shut himself in, pausing on the other side of the door for a bracing moment as he strained to hear whether those bootsteps would come thundering after him with a voice raised loud in reprimand. When no such thing came, he relaxed and plodded over to drop his arse heavily onto his bed, sighing as he plucked up a flask poorly hidden beneath the pillow. An odd, purple vapour that plumed out when he popped the lid.

Olesya, what in Taal's name is this stuff you drink?

He shrugged. Bardin had tightened his security on his stash since the last time Markus managed to swindle a leg away from the dwarf, and he wasn't dumb enough to try and knock off a bottle of that fancy old stuff he'd seen Saltzpyre hide in his quarters. This though he'd seen the crone swigging plenty enough, heard her challenging Bardin that it was tougher stuff than his ancestors were made of. Some Kislev spirits? He took a sniff. Whatever it was, she wouldn't miss it, and he needed it right now. Especially if he was going to have to deal with any repercussions - though, being honest, he doubted that. Saltzpyre was about as emotionally aware as a...thing that's not really emotionally aware.

He could practically feel Kerillian's jeer at his lack of finesse with words. Just another reminder where he stood. Big, dumb, Kruber. Good with a blade and not much else. He knew he couldn't keep up with everyone's banter, not well enough, and he'd seen the way Saltzpyre had looked at him when he couldn't read some fancy missive - so he weren't that good educated. So what? And why should he care what they thought? What Saltzpyre thought?

He took a swig.

Bloody grumpy, ugly old Saltzpyre. With his creepy glass eye and scarred brow, and his lined, sunken face, and his dark, full lips, and hooded, smoldering glares, and...

...oh bollocks.


	2. Chapter 2

He didn't remember how they'd gotten there, but then that seemed to be the way of it with all that portal jumping and witchy magic that Olesya was using to send them every which way over the Reikland, and thereabouts. He wasn't sure he'd had that much to drink to have forgotten most everything up to this sudden skirmish, though he was a biiit tipsy. Whatever was in that flask...

Needed it, though. After...the thing that made him need the drink.

He remembered Bardin dragging him from his quarters, something about Okri, a...ruin? Elves? Must have been talking about Kerillian. There were trees for a bit. Huge towering trees, stumbling down past a river. A cave. They were in a cave?

Markus thumped a screeching rat on the snout, felt more than heard the crunch as his hammer flattened bone to the ground. The noise was cacophonous around him, gunfire and Sienna's fire bursting in syncopation with the melody of shrieking vermin. Metal clanging and flesh mushing and battle cries from his teammates punctuated the din. It was all amplified by the stone of the claustrophobically close walls. It was odd, but he could have sworn he'd been there before, or seen it, or it felt something unreal. Maybe it was in one of those paintings Catrinne was hanging up about the keep when no one was looking. How that girl managed to evade everyone...maybe she was a vampire. He shuddered off the thought and focused instead on pummeling another rat.

He spun a quick look about, a movement that made the walls blur with the faces of screeching gnashing rats. Couldn't see the others, was sure they were somewhere. Could still hear yelling? Screaming? Clanking?

Clanking?

A glow of green in his peripheral caught his attention. He swung another look round as he beat back another rat, spying one lugging its cumbersome warpstone gatling, gearing up to unleash a hail of that horrible glowing green shot on them. The sight stopped him in his tracks. A sense of deja vu. A hail of warpshot, Saltzpyre on the ground. A battered Bardin trying to drag a broken Sienna to safety. Kerillian absent (well that wasn't anything different).

A spike of red hot rage ran through him, his vision went black and red. "Oh no you bloody don't!" He roared, making a charge directly for the creature. He stared down the multi-barrel, saw the creature's twisted, wicked grin from behind the machine. He wasn't thinking, just acted; dropped his hammer and grabbed the end of the gun with both hands, pushing it up and sending the burst of warpshot skyward. The Skaven shrieked and tried to regain control, Markus just pushed further. Stone rained down on their heads. The shooting stopped.

He blinked as he realised after a moment that the ratling was no longer in front of him, until he looked down and spied it splayed on the floor between its ammunition pack and it's gun, a hunk of rock where it's head should be.

Bleeding good luck that was. Any nearer and it would have been bye bye old Markus--

"Sergeant!" Saltzpyre barked from nearby. The hunter swept back out of the way of a blackrat glaive, lunged to spear the creature through the eye.

Markus jumped and stared at him a moment as he felt the fog in his head obscure his memory and make thinking more difficult than usual. "Sir...? You're...?"

Right. Alive. Of course. Who's dead? No one's dead, Markus, mate. Just your stupid nightmares and stupid drink. Really need to stop drinking. But then the nightmares, so more drink, but then more nightmares. What a nasty little cycle--

"Kruber!!" 

"Oh, uh...! Right you are, Sir!" Markus blurted, ducking to pluck up his sword, making his head spin something fierce, and stumbling into the fray beside the witch hunter. Saltzpyre said something else, but Markus didn't catch it. Mumbling, or speaking too quick, or all that fuzz in his head. "Had th'strangest dream, Sir. Not like...like the ones you lot tease me about. You were all d--"

"Myudchw fjxowbe fjtbakf Azumgi!" Bardin grunted, beside him suddenly.

Markus frowned at the garble. Tried to make sense of it. Instead he gave up and took out the vermin in their way.

"Llueurrlfjsb Mayflies!" He heard Kerillian yell from up ahead. He squinted through fire, rings and bursts and fireworks of fire. Felt like his skin was on fire! He gave a frantic look over himself.

No, not on fire, all good, mate...

Something stung though. Head. Yeah, that was it. His head pounded like Bardin was inside it swinging away with that hammer of his. Bloody dwarf, getting in his head.

He bumped into Saltzpyre; hadn't realised they'd even stopped. Saltzpyre had a hand to his shoulder, and he swire he could see a hint of glowing green. "Sir? You ailing?" Saltzpyre mumbled something, which Markus didn't comprehend as he came over. There was blood on the man's hand, his jacket, flecks of glowing green through the mess. "That warpshot, Sir? Lemme get that, it'll need--"

"Kruber! Your concismiaceh inothoars!" Saltzpyre objected, before he was on his way again. Markus frowned as he lost most of that. Everything was moving way too fast for him.

He found himself stumbling on after them regardless as if dragged by an invisible force, barely registering the scenery going past, unable to feel the ground beneath his feet. It was like treading through water - only he was an awful swimmer, so at least it wasn't that, or he'd have to worry about breathing.

"--than the dwarf!" Cried one of the others. Sienna, maybe? He thought it was her, though the words themselves drew the entirety of his attention and he whipped a spinning look to the darkness ahead, and the big, glowing green and bronze bell suspended in it from chains.

Oh no, not another bloody bell!

He swore, hoisting his mace. "Let's break it and smash it, mates!"

A collective screech responded, rats clawing out of the darkness from every which way. Suited him, he could do bashing in a few more skulls. He glanced a fireball hurtle off into the fray, snapping a chain in two. The bell jolted and clanged in protest. Saltzpyre gave up a responding cry in pain.

"Sir??" Markus called, whipping his eye over. The hunter was hunched over, hat on the ground, hands clapped over his ears. From his vantage, Markus could see the glow of green where warpshot was still embedded in the man's shoulder. "Sir?? Taal!"

The bell clanged again and brought Saltzpyre to his knees with another, more strident cry. A spasm convulsed his body, the warpstone was practically shining.

"Stop the bell!!" Markus yelled, hurrying over to the witch hunter. He cast a frantic look about but couldn't see beyond the rats, that seemed to keep their distance or turn towards their beloved lump of bronze. He returned his attention to Saltzpyre. The man was writhing, his skin literally crawling, bones cracking. The last chain broke, the bell came crashing down with a clang.

Saltzpyre's shriek cut off as his body burst. Gore and blood exploded from his mangled form, a great bulging fleshy mass pulling itself free with a phlemy roar. Markus fell back, eyes glued in horror. A tentacle lashed through the air, whipped for him. He barely rolled aside. Sienna screamed. He couldn't turn away fast enough. A severed forearm flopped in front of him, followed by her waist and legs. The bell was still droning it's deafening gong. Rats shrieked. The Saltzpyre spawn roared and thundered.

Markus ran.

He could feel it behind him, felt slime on his body. His blood, Saltzpyre's blood, Sienna's blood. The world spun upside down. His leg was wrenched up into the air. He found himself staring into a bloody, gaping maw. He fell.


	3. Chapter 3

Victor was concerned about Kruber.

The man drank too much, far too much. His careless intoxication had seen him take warpshot to the shoulder, but Markus hadn't even seemed to have noticed. He kept insisting on soldiering on, kept saying things that didn't make sense. They barely dragged him conscious from that blasted ruin. And he'd kept yelling about a bell.

On top of that, he had started acting...strangely. It wasn't just the inappropriate behaviour, the advances - oh yes, he had noticed that. It wasn't difficult when the man practically pressed hips or lips to his, and gave him the same eye he usually reserved for a bottle of Estalian brandy after a long day's slaughter. But no, it wasn't the advances that concerned him. It was this talk of visions, dreams, hearing things, remembering things that had not occurred, at least not the way the soldier recalled.

He put his coat aside and toed off his boots, frowning to himself as he pushed aside the thoughts for the night. He would talk to the soldier in the morning. Provided the man could be trusted to sleep off whatever toxins had prompted his rampant idiocy. He was out like a light the the moment Victor had him stitched up and that warpshot out.

Turning towards the humble little cell he had set up as a bed room, he paused at noise. Thudding. Uneven thudding, like faltering steps, out on the flagstones. Too heavy for rats, too clumsy for one of the others, unless...

"SIR?!"

A heavy banging made him jump and pivot around. A pistol was in hand instantly and aimed at the rattling door.

"SIR?! I'M COMING IN!!"

"What in Sigmar's name...?!" He stepped back as the door burst open, wood splintering as the lock was torn half from it. Kruber's tumbling bulk thundered in. He failed to sidestep and grabbed the man by the shoulders instead. "Kruber!" He staggered back and hit the stone wall hard, gritting his teeth against the knock to the back of his skull.

Kruber didn't appear to notice. There was a wild, frantic look in his eyes as he grabbed Victor in turn and pushed him harder against the wall to stabilised himself. He began landing fumbling pats over the hunter, gaze whipping almost in fright over him. Victor scrunched his face and leaned away as best he could while being bodily pinned to the wall, good eye leering.

"You're not...?! Taal! Thank...bloody Taal!" Markus breathed. He almost headbutted Victor in the face as abruptly their mouths were brought together, a sloppy clash of teeth and broken skin. Thankfully his uncoordinated attentions diverted quickly, if over the rest of Victor's face. "Don't turn inna...don't...!"

Kruber's words assaulted him with a pungent waft of alcohol - and something else. Victor eased his protest to level a disapproving glare. "You are drunk, soldier. Still!"

Markus only shook his head as his hands insisted on roaming and patting further.

Victor...wanted to protest, to deny his own complicity. Certainly some part of him did, but whichever part that was didn't seem to have control of his body, because he barely managed a token effort pushing at the other man. "Kruber...! I'm ordering you--" Another bruising kiss cut him off. "--Kru--" Another. "Markus Krube--!" A cry strangled from his throat and his hips lurched at a firm, purposeful touch. Whatever his objections, there was no regaining control now, as he felt the drunken soldier's mouth move to his neck and chest, tunic was pulled away to aid the journey.

He shut his eyes, croaked a prayer to Sigmar for forgiveness and, a hand tangling into the unshaven locks of Kruber's hair, urged the man further downward.

* * *

Warm. Nice and warm. Warm, comfortable, face, arms, body, legs. Chilly back, bit of a nasty sting - that was unpleasant - cold arse. Arse?

Markus grumbled, scrunched his eyes, a thudding in his head welcomed him as he lifted his face from its warm, snuggly cocoon. He cracked an eye open and found his gaze met with a single, staring eye in return.

By Taal?!

He blinked away the sleep, stared. A sinking, churning sensation formed in his gut. "Ah...morning sir? Early riser?"

Saltzpyre glared up at him. Despite the look, the frown lacked its usual ferocity, his brows were barely knitted together. "A miracle that I slept at all, given your gargantuan load."

Markus swallowed a lump that had risen in his throat, as the words repeated in his head, drawing his eye to take in the rest of their...state. That explained the warmth and no mistake. "...Ah, yeah. About that. My uh, load." He cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks heat. "Did we...?"

"Hmph. Little surprise your drunken stupor has affected your recollection."

Markus could have sworn the hunter's face flushed. He could definitely feel the man's body tense and his heart thud heavier in his chest. And now that he thought of it, there was a smell... "Huh...mustn't be complaining, what with me still here, eh?"

Saltzpyre's eyes narrowed in a more serious glare this time. "Do not mistake my position for complacency, Sergeant. Breathe word of this and not only will I deny it, but the consequences will be dire." His upper lip curled. Markus was sure he felt the man shudder. "Do I make myself clear?"

"...as crystal, Sir."

The hunter seemed content with the answer and gave a sharp nod, as his tone assumed its familiar command. "Good. Now, up, we have work to do."

Markus hesitated, shifting a little. "Yeah we do..."

"Kruber...! Up! I will not say it again...!" Saltzpyre scowled.

He couldn't help a chuckle, and pointedly pressed down. "I am 'up', Sir..." The movement prompted a croak of a groan from his superior, like the man wasn't familiar with it - and, honestly, he probably wasn't. Saltzpyre's hands made a feeble effort to push him off, one grabbing onto his bare shoulder, the other at his chest. Markus knew if the man wanted, he'd be on the floor by now with a gun to his head. He arched a brow, giving a little flex again to test his level of influence. Another noise, need mingled with frustration.

"...by Sigmar...I am a man of stronger will than this."

"I don't think that's it." Markus replied with another chuckle and growing confidence. He was more than happy to ignore a hangover in this instance, and bent his head to daringly press his mouth to skin. Neck, collar, chest, each one eliciting twitches and sounds of uncertainty. He grinned, looking up from his hunch over the conflicted man to meet his wide-eyed stare. "I think, Victor Saltzpyre, you want this."

Saltzpyre attempted some semblance of a scowl, reached for Markus' hair and gripped the top tight. The lack of resistance it offered didn't discourage him.

"I think--"

The door thudded with a heavy knocking. ”Oi! Grimgi! Up ye get, ye scrawny wazzock!"

Markus found himself suddenly staring at the ceiling with the cold hard stone floor at his back. 

Ow. Bloody ow...wouldn't have hurt to just ask.

Saltzpyre whipped past him. Markus grimaced and began over, slowly, onto his side. It left him on display, facing the door, when it was busted open - barely hard enough for the lock to come off, but the warped bit of metal went clattering all the same. Bardin plodded in, peering about.

"What a dump. This what you call a--oi, Azumgi? What're you doing down there, manling? Bit cold to be with ye dongliz all out like that." The dwarf exclaimed in good humour.

Markus felt his face burn and he turned to stumble to his feet, the trousers trapping his legs and making him stagger into a wall. "Yeah, yeah, Bardin. I was just...uh..."

"Your wound is tended to, Kruber. Try not to get shot again." Saltzpyre drawled.

The man was already bloody dressed, Markus saw, as he shot a glance over. Wait, shot? He gave himself a quick one over and finally noticed the bandage around his upper arm and shoulder. Huh, ow, well that explains the sting. He frowned, looking between Saltzpyre and Bardin.

"Aye, good. No more bloody running at ratlings, Azumgi." Bardin chortled, then turned to plod for the door again. He paused and gave Saltzpyre a look. "And this place smells like a rakogri's arse, Grimgi. Haven't ye heard of washing??"

Saltzpyre scowled off the dwarf, while Markus just put a hand to his head and tried to make sense of it all.

No one was dead. Well, so far Saltzpyre wasn't, at least. Was it all just another nightmare? He swore the man got shot. But it was actually he himself who got shot? And what about that bell? And...oh hello, you little beauty, that one was an image he hoped wasn't a dream. Taal, he really needed a drink...

"Get moving, Sergeant." Saltzpyre snapped, stalking to the door and out, leaving Markus alone in the cold, unforgiving little dungeon.

* * *

As he stormed from his room, Victor could only fume at himself for the events he had allowed to transpire the previous night. Allowing himself to succumb to such Slaaneshi vice! He, a man of Sigmar! He had thought himself immune to temptation.

But for Kruber. Faithful, handsome, Markus Kruber. Younger Kruber. What a man like that had in mind to get out of him...

That's what it would be, of course, if nothing else. It was evident he wanted something, just not what. The notion did not bode well. Perhaps it wasn't the drink, but something more sinister. Perhaps, it had to do with his strange demeanor. Just perhaps he had reason to fear the Sergeant's susceptibility to the lures of Chaos after all.

"About bloody time you showed face. We've only been waiting all morning." Lohner grumbled from over at the table in the commons, the maps and figures and usual clutter spread out over the entire surface. The others, Kruber obviously excluded, were standing about in various fashions, waiting or occupying themselves, though a few looks were cast the witch hunter's way.

Victor gave him a sour look. "I will be ready when I am ready, at no others' behest."

Lohner grunted. "Sure, it's not like the Reikland is burning. Take all the time you need."

Perched on the table, Sienna snorted and Victor turned his accusatory stare toward her. "Have you a contribution to make, Fuegonasus?"

The witch cracked that broad grin of hers that stretched ear to ear, showing all her teeth. "Not me, Victor. Just refreshing to see you might be partway human after all."

Saltzpyre opened his mouth to rebuke, when Lohner cut in. "Right. Enough of that, let's get down to it with or without our wayward boy Markus."

"Aye, before some of us die of boredom." Kerillian groaned, standing from where she'd waited crouched on the stairs to the Bridge.

Lohner chuckled. "Aye, well then, let's see if you lot can guess the flavour of today: what weighs several tonnes, draws ratmen like flies, and sounds awful?" There was a collective groan from the gathered.

"Aw no, not another bloody bell??" Came Markus' voice. Victor turned a look to the soldier, intending to shoot a glare, but found himself staring instead. The man looked...rumpled. Moustache askew, stubble already growing back between it and his mutton chops, gear haphazardly thrown on and hat missing. It was somewhat becoming.

Lohner chuckled at their responses. "That it is. You win a pumpkin, you lucky bleeder." His tone went serious, "We don't know if the lump of bronze they've hauled up on Helmgart's ramparts is a real screaming bell, but better safe than sorry. Get out there and smash it to bits."

There were sounds of agreement; Kerillian was already moving into the Bridge, the others got themselves ready and followed. Victor shot Markus an eye, which was not returned. In fact, he was quite sure that the soldier purposely avoided looking his way. He looked like he'd seen a ghost, fumbling and occupying himself with a mouthful from a hip flask before he followed the others. It was evident the man's drunken antics the night before had been just that. Just so, he reasoned to himself, since it was an incident best forgotten and not repeated.

"You know, the thing about this place," Lohner began, breaking through Victor's train of thought as he turned to follow the others. The hunter paused, lips pursed and eye sliding an exasperated look to the ex-bartender. Lohner wasn't looking at him, eyeing the map. "it's big. Got plenty of rooms for all of us. Problem is: noise travels." He looked up, met Victor's eye with that knowing stare of his. "Doors, you know."

He felt his cheeks tint with the implication and he countered by glaring down his nose at the other man. "Indeed. I too wish the elf would desist that accursed wailing."

Lohner continued to stare, one eyebrow arching slowly but saying nothing. Victor took what was left of his dignity and stormed to the Bridge with the others.


	4. Chapter 4

The city rocked with booms of thunder, silt and dust raining down on them as they stepped out into a dark cellar. Just their luck to be raining, storming even. Sienna grumbled openly. Her fires wouldn't be hampered, not by a long shot, but they didn't like the rain one bit. Took the spark out of them.

Saltzpyre took to the head of the troupe, he and Kerillian butting against each other in the small space as they made for a set of stairs that looked promising. Bardin was cheerful in following, the rock vibrating as he began another of his odes to slaying ratties. Or, he put words to the same tune he always seemed to sing. Sienna slid a look back to Markus as the soldier brought up the rear. Boy looked something awful. Hungover, of course, and that shot he'd taken. Then there was that slightly wild look in his eye as he flicked an alert gaze about. It wasn't like him. Something was up more than the little tryst going on that was apparently all closed doors and whispers. Still, she was more interested in seeing how much fire it would take to melt a lump of bronze than worry about their boy. He could handle himself, and there was always his keeper if he couldn't. She let herself have a snigger.

They broke out into the open and were assaulted by the downpour and the sight, that big bell off through the curtain of rain, high up on the walls in the distance. It would be a trek to get there through this weather. Still, they clambered and dropped down sodden planks and slippery stone, hit the run of street and continued down another storey. Behind her she heard a clatter and crash, turned and saw Markus, dumb boy, had slipped, slid down a slope of roof, and landed square on his arse in a stack of crates. Granted the crates came off worse, but he genuinely didn't seem to notice, just pulled himself upright muttering that he didn't need the help anyway and stumbled with a precarious sway.

"You quite all right, Markus, darling?"

The Sergeant lifted a look in (vaguely) her direction, frowning. "What? Can't stop now, mates...the cannons, listen!" He stumbled past her, as if she wasn't there, avoiding half the road and shooting it a wary look. Sienna shook her head and made a mental note to check that Lohner wasn't putting rat poison in Markus' ale.

Up ahead, the noisy troupe quickly drew attention, and the skittering of claws on stone met the thudding of boots and bare feet, pact sworn swarming in from every nook and cranky to hone in on them.

"This weather is as foul as my mood!" Saltzpyre announced to the gale and lashing rain, rapier slicing through and blending water and blood. A Skaven leapt over its fallen pactsworn and onto the blade.

"I wasn't aware there was another side to you, One-Eye." Kerillian jeered, windmilling dual blades through the mob. "Though at this rate, perhaps you should try smiling? Might kill them faster."

"And here I thought you'd be in a fine mood, Saltzpyre." Sienna chipped in with fireballs soaring overhead. A form fell from the sky, its luminescent green blades clattering as the rest of it thudded into the fray. She grinned at a fleeting glare tossed her way. "Way I hear it, someone finally taught Little Victor how to dance."

There was a grunt from Bardin. "Little Victor? One bloody Grimgi's enough for this dawi, don't tell me there's another?"

The witch hunter turned a glare properly Sienna's way. "Witch...!"

"Don't look now, mayflies, but we're about to lose Kruber." Kerillian interrupted. Heads turned as they finished hacking through the horde, quick enough to spy the tail of Kruber's red sash vanish down a drop. There was a cry from the soldier as he vanished from sight, truncated screeches of ratmen, and the rest was drowned out by the storm.

"By Sigmar...get back here, soldier! That's an order!" Saltzpyre barked, pivoting on his heel and whisking after their wayward companion. "Kruber!" Sienna snorted but tailed the hunter.

The city beyond offered them a brief, but fiery respite from the rain. Sienna's eyes actively lit up at the sight of tongues of fire licking up the shabby wooden structures that composed the poor quarters, though the stench that emanated from the burning waste only added another level to the smells the rain was already dragging up. Kruber was up ahead, just done laying into a pactsworn. He seemed genuinely surprised to turn and see them.

"Soldier! No more running amok or I'll have that hide tanned." Saltzpyre scolded, striding over as they caught up.

Markus frowned but just looked past him. He'd heard him, but clearly was either too drunk to register or intended to ignore his superior. Saltzpyre brushed it off and made to stalk right on past.

The next thing anyone knew, Markus had bowled the hunter over to the ground in a sudden mad dash. Warpshot began to rattle through the burning laneway. Sienna took a few shots and fell backward into a smoldering timber facade, which crunched on impact and came toppling down around her. Bardin ducked behind his shield and backed on over to the witch, dents rattling in his armour driving him back. The elf was nowhere in sight.

"Taal... it's happenin'..." Markus was whimpering. Saltzpyre shoved him off and grabbed a pistol out, firing of a shot. The flare of the warpshot skewed his aim and the rat barely seemed to notice a bullet to the leg. It went down a moment later as a silver stream zipped through the air and embedded itself in the gunner's throat. Kerillian dropped down to the street to join them, adjusting her hood.

"On the ground, as usual, lumberfoots."

Saltzpyre scowled and kicked Markus away, grabbing him roughly. "On your feet, soldier." He shot a look to the elf, then the others.

Bardin had cleared the wreckage and dragged Sienna free, doing a ham-handed job of patching her up that ended up with her prying free the warpshot herself when one prod too hard had her singe his beard. He stomped away muttering about manlings and raki and something about a stew.

When the witch pulled herself up again, she just flashed a wry grin and made an uncomfortable limp over. "Don't wait on an old woman, darlings."

"We weren't." Saltzpyre hissed, brushing himself off in irritation. Shot Markus another look before turning to stride onward as if the interruption hadn't occurred. "This way, follow me!"

Markus' eye followed a few seconds after, mouthing something he didn't put sound to. Sienna tossed him an odd look as the rest of them passed, but he didn't appear to notice, just pulled out a flask and popped the lid to take a swig. She'd have said something, except it wasn't unlike the soldier to top up in the middle of a job, even if the flask did have a whiff something foul to it, and she saw a purple vapour rising from it. A potion, probably. Markus needed all the concentration he could get right now, in honesty.

* * *

He didn't know whether or not the man was ignoring him. Disinterested in any further engagement now he'd had his way, certainly. Victor wouldn't admit a certain level of disappointment at that. It was best they pretend it had never happened. He strode onward and threw a look back to ensure the others chose to follow, saw Kruber swigging from that flask again and scowled at the man's decline of discipline. It was no matter. He'd give him a stern earful once back at the Keep. Kruber would rue the day he ever agreed to their contract.

They were uninterrupted venturing onward, save for the regular waves of pactsworn that came on and off in droves, the burst of warpfire that Bardin had to drag Kruber out of the way of, the hook rat that dragged the dwarf a solid flight of stairs before an arrow took the creature out and sent poor Gorekkson tumbling all the way back down, and the stormfiend hit Kerillian with such a heavy thump she was thrown a solid ten feet from the spot. All the while, Kruber kept up a steady pace of his own, just like the other day, and kept himself fortified with that flask of stuff.

"There it is, mayflies. Look, it's even uglier than the dwarf!" Kerillian called. A crack of thunder and flash of lightning followed as though on cue, the perfect stage setter to silhouette the huge bell propped up on a combination of ramshackle support beams and chains clawed into the surrounds. They were given a precious few seconds before the Skaven guarding their monument noticed the intruders, and they got back to work. The first three chains snapped, sent the bell swinging to one side with a deafening clang.

Markus screamed and fell to his knees.

"Sergeant?" Victor's attention whipped to the source. "Kruber's down!" A rapier through a Skaven throat, pistol shot to an eye, he dashed back from a glaive and almost stumbled as he doubled back for the soldier. No one else heard. They were all dealing with their own worries.

A second toll had Markus cry out again, a spasm running through him. Victor could see a glow beneath the cloth of the soldier's sleeve, a sickly green. A single warp shot he must have missed.

"Stop! Stop that bell!" He shrieked, slashing away a rat as he stood over Kruber. "I order you not to die, Sergeant!" The man grabbed at his trousers, made a strangled sound. Victor peeled his eyes from the fray to spare him a look.

"Help...me...!" Kruber begged round the blood that trickled from the corners of his mouth, eyes bloodshot and wide.

"Kruber!"

The bell tolled a third time as it came down. Markus howled. There was a tremendous crash. Victor found himself thrown away, tumbling over by the broken scaffolding and walkways that had housed the bell. With a yell he scrambled for purchase, digging the fingers of his gauntlet into water-soaked timber as the ground disappeared from beneath his legs and he swung over a precipice.

"Help!"

A roar drowned him out. He wouldn't go like this. Not by freak chance. Not without fighting to his last breath. Not without knowing.

He was barely holding on by his fingertips when another heavy thud landed. The plank groaned in protest, splintered. He made a wild swing for another. Slipped. A hand came over the edge. Sienna, grinning amidst her flames.

"Now I help you hunt—"

Something threw her out of the way with another crash. The board supporting Victor's weight gave and he tumbled, found himself turning over into a black abyss.

* * *

"...come on, up you get."

Screaming. Booming. Thundering. Flashes of light. Scurrying feet.

"Move it, Victor. Can't afford to carry you too."

Victor blinked through the blur, lifted his head, groggily, raising a hand to a blinding ache.

"Thought we'd lost you a moment there." The witch snorted, grabbing him by the crook of the elbow without waiting for permission and hauling him to his feet.

He mustn't have been out long. The vermin were fleeing; he could see tainted warpfire alight in the path the bell had carved itself on it's way downward through the sunken streets. The elf was flitting like a leaf on the wind, her blades glints of light as the rats fell about her. "The soldier...!"

"Come on." Sienna urged, pushing him ahead.

He saw the dwarf behind her some way up the road, Markus hauled over his shoulders. He forced himself to put it aside and hurry on.

It was done. It was past. They had performed their duty, whatever the cost, whatever the sacrifice. As he entered the glowing portal alongside the others, he cast one more look down at the slumped, bloody form of Kruber, reminded himself. Whatever the sacrifice.


	5. Epilogue

There was a quiet humming, punctuated by a dull thud, tmp, tmp, thud, tmp tmp. The occasional words spoken in a foreign tongue, but a familiar voice. The first sights were sharp, stabbing, prompted a responding pain in his head, body, gut. A hoarse groan croaked from his throat.

"Ah. You're up. About time, good-for-nothing."

He squinted through the blurry lights and colours. Some big form shuffled into his view, leaned over him and dangled something. He knew the voice. Olesya.

"Next time you think to steal from me, you think twice, ha?"

He registered the little swinging flask. His gut churned at the reminder of the odd-smelling spirit. "What's...in that stuff??"

The hag cackled. "Not for little boys like you." So saying, she lifting the bottle and took a swig, making a sound in relief. She didn't elaborate further but turned instead to move away. "He's all yours."

Markus groaned and shut his eyes again, hearing the shuffle-thud of the witch's peg-legged hobble fade off into the Keep, leaving him in blessed silence. He frowned. Wait...

"I expect you have learnt a valuable lesson from your actions?"

He turned his head at the drawl, squinting again. The movement hurt his neck but right now the hangover was the worst, and he dealt with those plenty. Saltzpyre was standing by his bookshelf, peering at its few contents, hands folded behind his rigid straight back. The good eye slid to him; he couldn't help a slightly sheepish grin back. "Yeah, yeah, I got it, Sir. No stealin' weird spirits from the witch."

"Your reckless actions jeopardised our purpose!" The hunter hissed, turning in a swift movement and planting a hand on the bedhead as he loomed over Markus. "Mark me, if I catch you with so much as a drop of drink until whensoever I deem time, by Sigmar I will make you regret it."

Markus wasn't really in the space to argue. Saltzpyre was right. But if he thought he could do worse than whatever that stuff had done to his head, he'd be sorely mistaken. Before he could make comment, he found the man lean down to press a firm kiss to his mouth, a hand behind his head preventing him from any ideas of retreat. He wasn't about to argue. He welcomed the surprise, responding in kind, sure there was a passion behind the hunter's force.

Saltzpyre broke away, panting softly, keeping Markus fixed with a hard glare. But for all his show, Markus could see a genuine worry behind his eyes. He couldn't help cracking a fond grin. "...guess this means you ain't so mad about the Bretonnian thing no more, huh?"

His head snapped aside. He felt the sting in his cheek a second after. Saltzpyre's heels clicked from the room loudly followed by the wall-shuddering slam of the door.

Ow. Bloody...well, at least he had one less thing to worry about.


End file.
